


Sleep and Rest and Peace

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Sleep and Rest and Peace [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04 Finale, Post-The Final Problem, mystrade, spoiler - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:51:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9348020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg holds himself to his promise to Sherlock - to take care of a fragile Mycroft.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just working through the pain of TFP, hopefully to build something lovely out of such an emotionally-wrenching episode.

Mycroft was shivering. He didn’t seem to be able to stop, despite the layers in which he had buried himself. He pulled the duvet closer around his shoulders, closing his eyes as he tried to control his body. This was a mistake, as he mind was flooded with images from that day, that awful day. Was it two days ago now, or three? He didn’t know, sleep being as elusive as it had been. The pills helped, but eight hours of dead sleep at an odd time of day did nothing for his diurnal rhythm.

Mycroft opened his eyes, feeling the sandiness that marked his fatigue. He scrubbed one hand across his face, sighing. This would not be as easy as he thought it would be. These events had shaken his sense of the world, and moreover, his sense of self.

While he had been able to keep himself separate, aloof from the impact of his decisions, everything had seemed more like a game. He was the Chessmaster, moving pieces but unaffected by the consequences. Now, though, after seeing what Eurus had done, having no choice but to see what her brain had devised as their punishment for her childhood, he felt – different. Exposed, vulnerable, and unsure of himself. None of these things sat comfortably with Mycroft, and he did not know how to resolve this newer, more fragile version of himself.  

A sound in the hall registered enough for Mycroft to notice, though he did not stir himself. Any noise in his house must be from one of the two people with access to his security systems, one of whom was Mycroft.

“Anthea," he said, voice croaky from disuse.

The footsteps were soft and decidedly not Anthea’s.

Mycroft frowned for a moment, then his mind supplied the alternative. His usual level of surprise was tempered by his emotional exhaustion. Clearly Anthea had chosen to let someone in, and she did not make decisions about Mycroft lightly.

He sighed again, then spoke. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.” His voice was certain, but flat, unemotional. When the footsteps made their way to his sitting room, Mycroft neither rose nor turned to the figure at the door, remaining curled on the sofa, his hands trembling as he held the duvet around himself.

Greg paused at the door, taking in the scene before him. Mycroft had never appeared in less than an immaculate three piece suit to Greg, and this was a long way removed. He was unshaven, though that was as much as Greg could tell, as the duvet surrounding him concealed the rest of his body. The dimmed room took some adjusting, and after a moment, he moved hesitantly into the space, sitting on the other end of the sofa. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed the dark shadows under Mycroft’s bloodshot eyes.

He looked terrible, haunted, Greg thought. He was rocking, Greg noticed, and hadn’t turned at all to acknowledge him other than his initial statement of his name.

“Mycroft,” Greg said carefully.

Mycroft’s eyes flickered towards Greg, though he did not speak. A hand snaked out from the duvet towards the Scotch glass on the coffee table. It was shaking hard, and drops of the amber liquid spilled out onto the floor. The glass disappeared into the duvet, then out again, Mycroft gulping at the liquid until it was gone. He dropped the empty glass and it rolled onto the rug.

Greg picked it up carefully, leaving it on the coffee table. Mycroft looked worse, not better, for the drink, he thought. “Anthea let me in,” he said, not knowing what to say to elicit a response.

“Obviously,” Mycroft replied, thought it appeared to be an automatic one.

Greg took this as a good sign. Encouraged, he spoke again, sitting back more comfortably on the sofa. “Sherlock asked me to look out for you,” he offered. Nothing.

“He’s worried about you,” he added. Again, nothing. Greg sighed and unconsciously mirrored Mycroft’s earlier gesture, scrubbing one hand over his face. He too was tired, deep in his bones, from trying to unravel the mess Eurus had made, balancing the secrecy of Sherringford with the explanation needed for local law enforcement.

“I’m worried about you, Mycroft,” Greg admitted, quietly.

This, after all, was what caused a reaction.

Slowly, Mycroft’s brow furrowed, and he turned his head, eyes lagging, until he was facing Greg. He blinked once, twice then spoke softly. “Why?”

He sounded lost, Greg thought, like a little boy who doesn’t understand why the circus cannot stay. “You haven’t been seen or heard from in four days, Mycroft,” Greg pointed out.

Had it been that long, Mycroft wondered idly. The sleeping pills had certainly distorted his sense of time.

“Not since your sister,” Greg cleared his throat before continuing, “did what she did. I know you did some things you regret, but her actions are not your fault.” He stopped, not entirely sure of the whole story, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

Mycroft blinked at Greg, and to Greg’s surprise, he spoke.

“Without my weakness, Detective Inspector, Eurus would still be incarcerated, and many people would be alive who are otherwise…” he trailed off, a tremor wracking his body. He turned his face again, dropping it into his hands. The tremor repeated, and again, and Greg saw that he was sobbing. The duvet dropped from his shoulders, revealing a navy dressing gown and the collar of striped pajamas.

Greg moved closer, one hand closing over Mycroft’s shoulder in consolation.

Slowly the sobs trailed off, Mycroft’s face still buried in his hands.

“Why do you care, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft’s voice was muffled against his hands.

“It’s Greg, actually," Greg said.

This earned him a withering look from Mycroft, and he grinned a little.

“Made you look,” Greg said quietly.

Mycroft’s head tilted, an unspoken rebuke. He did, however, twist his mouth into an approximation of a smile.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly.

“I care because…” Greg paused. He thought for a moment, feeling Mycroft’s eyes on him. The scrutiny made him warm, his face flushing. Without looking at him, Greg spoke. “I’ve always cared, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded, like he was processing this new information. With a suddenness that shocked them both, a burst of laughter came from Mycroft mouth.

“Lady Smallwood – Alicia – asked me for a drink last week,” Mycroft admitted. “My first thought was, ‘Good lord, no.’” He looked at his shaking hands, turning them over and over. “My second thought was, ‘This is not the right person.’”

Greg’s heart had been working faster since he made his admission, but now it pumped faster still as he processed Mycroft’s implication.

Mycroft’s field of view was mainly of his shaking hands and the floor. As he looked at his hands, his tired mind worked sluggishly, berating his divulgence, calculating how long before Greg stood up and made his excuses. His field of view was suddenly blocked by another pair of hands. He registered the shifting of Greg’s weight closer to him on the couch, his rough hands sliding over Mycroft’s softer ones. They put gentle pressure over Mycroft’s hands, enclosing them until they stilled. Drawing a shaking breath, Mycroft raised his gaze. He met Greg with a tortured look, nightmares evident in his eyes.

“Come on,” Greg sighed, pulling Mycroft in to lean against him, one arm encircling his shoulders, the other still surrounding his shaking hands, now settled on Greg’s chest. Mycroft turned his head into Greg’s shoulder, his tense body relaxing as the warm embrace finally stilled the trembling. Greg watched as the tired eyes closed, his breathing slowed and his muscles relaxed, finally, into sleep, and rest, and peace.

 


End file.
